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He stepped back, the weight of morning pressing down on him, but it was nothing compared to the strange chill that enveloped him as he glanced at the luminous tendrils of light coiling about her feet. They glimmered like the ghostly afterimage of a lost dream, undulating with a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

The woman remained blissfully unaware, her laughter spilling into the dusty air like music, her hair catching the sunlight in a cascade o of gold. He felt an unnameable tension coiled in his gut–an urge to pull away, to shield her from the creeping madness that seemed to seep through the cracks between the very wood beneath them.

“Everything all right?” she asked, tilting her head, her bright green eyes sparkling with curiosity.

He forced a smile, masking the terror that clawed at his insides. “Of course. Just… a little busy today.”

As he turned to leave, the air thickened with a silence that buzzed like a swarm of locusts. The sun hung low, casting long shadows that twisted and danced as if trying to escape the grip of something unseen. With every step away from her, he felt the tendrils pulse with a life of their own, a silent warning echoing in the creaking boards of the boardwalk.

His mind spiraled, teetering on the edge of sanity. He replayed the image of those glimmering tendrils, convinced they were some malignant force, an omen of doom.

His thoughts grew darker with each step, an internal monologue of paranoia and dread. The whispers of ancient things grew louder in his mind, feeding his fear and gnawing at his resolve.

By the time he reached the shadows of the saloon, his heart was pounding. The door creaked open, the dim interior swallowing him whole.

Inside, the whispers didn’t cease; they amplified, filling the space between his ears, a cacophny of dread. He glanced back, seeing the woman’s silhouette in the distance, bathed in the last light of the dying sun.

The tendrils seemed to beckon, a dark promise lurking beneath the surface of reality.

“What secrets lay hidden in the dust beneath us?” he wondered, the thought echoing in his mind, the ancient whispers still haunting the air.

A Fernley man, Santos Robin Benitez Tejada, 49, faces up to six years in prison after pleading guilty to felony eluding in connection with a dangerous high-speed chase.

The incident, which occurred on Thursday, March 7, involved Tejada driving a lifted blue pickup at speeds of 80-100 mph through Minden, endangering others and causing property damage. The chase began after the pickup was spotted driving erratically near Leviathan Mine Road.

Deputies caught up with Tejada near Douglas High School in Minden, where students were leaving class, further heightening the danger. The pursuit continued over Kingsbury Grade into South Lake Tahoe, where Tejada turned up Pioneer Trail, and deputies halted their chase.

A temporary California plate on the truck helped investigators link it to Tejada, leading to his arrest later that evening by Nevada State Police in Fernley.

Sentencing is Monday, November 18.

Dear Big Guy Upstairs, I know you’re up there—lounging on your celestial recliner, sipping cosmic coffee, and watching reruns of the Big Bang. Or maybe you’re busy untangling the strings of fate, like a celestial cat playing with yarn.

Now, I’ve got effing questions.

Listen, I’ve got a bone to pick with you. Yeah, me—poet, barfly, and general misfit. You created this place called Earth, right? Populated it with people, mosquitoes, and kale salads. And then you sat back, kicked up your divine feet, and said, “Let’s see how this dumpster fire unfolds.”

First off, why mosquitoes? Those little bloodsuckers are like your practical joke. You must’ve chuckled when you made them—tiny vampires thirsty for ankles.

And don’t get me started on kale salads. Did you run out of ideas, Big Guy? “Let’s create something green and tasteless,” you said. Well, congrats—you nailed it.

But let’s talk about love. You cooked up this recipe called “romance,” sprinkled it with hormones, and served it to us like a comedic Tinder profile. And what do we get? Heartaches, missed connections, and awkward first dates. Thanks, Big Guy. Real smooth.

Why did you make women so damned beautiful? It’s like you dipped them in moonlight and sprinkled stardust on their eyelashes. And then you gave them the power to break hearts with a smile. Cruel move, my friend.

And speaking of hearts, mine’s been fucking stomped on more times than a cockroach at a nuclear test site. Did you design love to be this messy? Or did you throw a bunch of hormones into a blender and hit “liquefy”?

But let’s get personal, Big Guy. Why did you make writers? We’re your cosmic court jesters, aren’t we? Scribbling our drunken thoughts on napkins, hoping someone notices. But you? You’re probably too busy rearranging galaxies or playing 17th-dimensional stellar poker with Cthulhu.

So, here is my prayer:

Dear Big Guy: If you exist, give me one more shot of whiskey and a reason to keep writing. If not, well, cheers anyway. Yours in cosmic absurdity. P.S. If you ever decide to respond, send a shooting star my way or maybe the Northern Lights.
Yours in cosmic absurdity.”

About ten minutes later, this flashed on the computer screen:

“Dear Smart Ass: If you exist, consider this your celestial whiskey shot. Keep writing—it’s the universe’s best-kept secret. As for shooting stars and Northern Lights, they are not my thing, not my way of saying, ‘Keep scribbling, my cosmic court jester,’ Cthulhu, on the other hand…Yours in celestial absurdity, The Big Guy Upstairs.”

An effort by Nevada Rep. Steven Horsford to censure Rep. Clay Higgins of Louisiana for allegedly making racist remarks about illegal Haitian aliens was stopped by GOP leadership.

Higgins posted comments on social media, describing Haitians in derogatory terms. In his now-deleted post on X, Higgins referred to Haitians as “wild,” accused them of “eating pets,” and labeled Haiti the “nastiest country in the western hemisphere.” The post, widely condemned for its racist tone, was quickly removed after Democratic lawmakers confronted Higgins on the House floor.

The controversy comes amid growing tensions from a sudden Haitian influx in Springfield, Ohio, where illegal aliens have faced racist abuse following comments made by Republican presidential candidate Donald Trump and his running mate, Sen. JD Vance, alleging that Haitians were eating pets.

The Haitian Bridge Alliance, a nonprofit recently created to defend illegal aliens in the Haitian community specifically, has filed charges against Trump and Vance for “spreading harmful misinformation.” In response, Higgins posted that Haitians should “get out of our country before January 20th,” referencing a potential Trump inauguration if he wins the upcoming election.

As lawmakers wrapped up their legislative work before the November election, Nevada Democratic Rep. Steven Horsford, who chairs the Congressional Black Caucus, introduced a resolution to censure Higgins.

Horsford condemned Higgins’ rhetoric.

“Higgins’ words are inciting hate and fear, and it is time for this body to ensure accountability,” Horsford said.

However, Republicans, led by House Speaker Mike Johnson, quickly moved to block the resolution.

“We believe in redemption around here.”

It is not the first time Higgins has come under fire for his social media activity. Since his election to Congress in 2016, he has stirred controversy, including a 2020 Facebook post in which he threatened to “drop” armed protesters.

Horsford reiterated the need for accountability, calling Higgins’ remarks a dangerous example of hate speech and bigotry. He emphasized the need to “turn the page on this pattern of denigrating and villainizing immigrants for political gain” while urging Congress to stand united against racism.

Adventuring across Nevada is a quiet and lonely thing. The Silver State doesn’t speak much. It stretches itself out, empty and still, like the soul of a man who’s gone too long without saying what’s on his mind.

That evening, I was driving State Route 140, heading out of Winnemucca. Denio had come and gone, the last whisper of civilization behind me, and the light was fading fast. It was the kind of cold that crept up slowly but hard, settling deep into your bones before you realized it.

I spotted him up ahead, just a figure in the twilight.

A guy about my age, standing on the roadside with his thumb out. I don’t ordinarily pick up hitchhikers. But it was Nevada in October, and the nights turned bitter when the sun dropped. I pulled over, letting him in.

He introduced himself—Greg, I think he said—and we shook hands. His grip was soft, like a man who hadn’t worked much with his hands.

We got back on the road, the Bug humming along the blacktop. At first, he didn’t say much, which was fine by me. I wasn’t in the mood for conversation.

But after a while, Greg started talking. A little at first, just some nonsense about where he’d been, where he was going. The usual small talk you expect from a stranger. But as the miles wore on, his words took a darker turn.

He spoke about killers and men who hunted other men. His voice changed, low and steady, with something in his tone that set me on edge. I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, my hand drifting toward the pistol I had tucked in the side door pocket.

Never travel unprepared, I thought, even when you are supposed to be alone.

I let him ramble a bit, watching the road, watching him. Then I cut in, slow and casual, “Funny thing… What do you think the odds are of two serial killers ending up in the same car?” I kept my eyes forward as I said it, my voice even, just another man making conversation.

The air in the car shifted. His face changed—dark, like a storm rolling over the desert.

“Pull over,” he said, pulling a long knife from his coat. “I’m robbing you.”

I didn’t argue. I slowed the car and pulled off to the side of the road. He barked orders and told me to get out. I did. But I left the door open as I backed away, my boots crunching on the gravel.

He stepped out of the passenger side, his knife gleaming in the dying light. And then, without warning, he was gone. One wrong step, and he tumbled over the embankment. I heard a long, drawn-out “Ahhh, shiiittt!” as he fell into the darkness below.

I stood there for a moment, staring into the valley. The cold had settled in by then. The night was thick with silence. I slipped back into the Bug, threw it into gear, and rolled away.

It pays to know the road you are traveling, especially when you have two serial killers in one car.

I don’t give a flying rat’s ass how you vote, but I’ll tell you how I do. Been doing this long enough– since 1980–and there is one thing I’ve figured out, it’s that every damned election, local or national, boils down to two things, money and whether the U.S. Constitution still means a goddamned thing. I’m not voting for some pretty or phony who can make you feel warm and fuzzy inside. I vote policy. It’s the only rule I have. You wanna vote for the guy or gal who shakes hands and kisses babies? Fine. But I’m here for what the hell they’re gonna do once in office.

And let’s be honest–it’s damn near impossible to know what they stand for until they’ve already stabbed us in the back, but that’s the crapshoot we sign up for when we vote. Because every single one of them is dishonest. It’s not even a matter of if they screw us, it’s how and when.

Locally? I vote my fucking wallet. If I even think it’s gonna cost me or anyone else more of our hard-earned cash, I vote to turn the spigot off. Period.

Don’t care how shiny their pitch is, how much they smile, or how many promises they make. You’re not getting my money.

And those people trying to rewrite the state constitutions with their feel-good, political bullshit? Shove it.

Every time they change a word, it costs us, the taxpayers, more money, if not our liberties. And guess what? It means the same fucking thing as before.

Just a bunch of assholes rearranging the deck chairs on a sinking ship. But it keeps them busy. Keeps them pretending they’re doing something worthwhile.

It’s a scam. Always has been. Always will be.

I might be what the world calls a fucking drunk, but at least I know one thing—I would fucking die before I let my dog starve. He’s the only creature in this godforsaken universe who gives a shit about me.

I would rather rot in a ditch than see him go without. You don’t like that? Screw you. He loves me without conditions, without any of the bullshit humans put on love.

Can’t say the same for these assholes at the bar, sitting next to me, pretending like we’re all in this together in the same sinking ship. We ain’t.

“Yeah, fuckin’ right. You think you’re better ‘cause your shirt’s clean and you’ve got your mortgage? You’re as much of a walking corpse as I am, the only difference is I know it and you don’t.”

Another shot goes down, burning like fire, but it’s the only warmth I’ve felt in days. The bartender gives me that look—she knows the drill. Just keep pouring. I’ll stop when I’m dead or broke, whichever comes first. I light a cigarette and drag it deep, watching the smoke curl up like it’s trying to escape this shithole before it all goes up in flames. Too bad it’s stuck here with the rest of us.

A guy’s sitting next to me, yapping about his miserable life. His job, his wife, his kids. Like, I give a fuck. As if I’m supposed to feel sorry for him because he didn’t get the promotion. Guess what, pal? Nobody gives a shit. I nod and pretend to listen, but inside, I’m seething. I want to slam his face into the bar until he shuts the fuck up.

“Go home to your suburban hell, where your wife’s probably screwing the neighbor, and your kid’s already learning how to be more of a disappointment than you are. And here you are, thinking I’m the fuck-up. Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”

I glance at my glass. Empty again. Of course, it is. Story of my life—empty. I motion for another, and the bartender is already moving. She doesn’t ask questions. She has seen enough of my kind to know we’re beyond help. Just keep the alcohol coming, and maybe, just maybe, we’ll make it through the night without doing something stupid.

But fuck that. I have done stupid. I have lived it. Hell, I invented it. So, you think you hit rock bottom? I am deep below the surface, encased in solid rock, and my faithful dog is the only thing keeping me from succumbing. That’s right. The only thing left that is real in this world is a damn dog. He’s waiting for me at home, probably wondering where I am and when I’ll come stumbling through the door, reeking of stale beer and bad decisions.

“At least he doesn’t judge me. At least he’s not full of shit like every person I’ve ever met. People? They take what they can get from you and leave you with nothing. Your dog? He sticks around, no matter how far you fall.”

I take another drink, feeling the whiskey sink in, dulling the edges of everything, making it easier to breathe, to exist. The guy by me is still rambling, trying to make his problems my problems, but I’m not listening. I don’t care. I’ve never cared. The world can burn for all I give a shit. I’ve got enough of my hell to deal with.

“And where the hell is God in all this? Up there, laughing his ass off while I scrape the bottom of the barrel. Or maybe he’s just ignoring me like everyone else. Either way, screw him. I don’t need a savior. I need a drink.”

I down what’s left in the glass and shove it back toward the bartender. She fills it without a word, her eyes glazed over like she’s watched a thousand guys just like me, and she’s probably right. The bar’s full of guys just like me—washed up, broken, bleeding out on the inside, but still too stupid to call it quits.

I glance at the clock. It’s late, or maybe it’s early. I don’t know, and I don’t care. My dog’s probably curled up by the door, waiting for me, still loyal even though I’m a piece of shit who doesn’t deserve it. I should go home, and feed it–but I’m stuck here, drinking myself into oblivion because it’s easier than facing the wreckage I’ve made of my life.

“I should’ve died long ago, turned to dust, but the world’s not that merciful. It keeps you around just to see how much more it can fuck with you.”

The guy by me stands up and pats me on the back like we’re buddies. I shrug him off, and he stumbles out into the night, back to his pathetic life. I stay planted on the barstool, staring at the empty glass in front of me, thinking about my dog, the only soul on this planet that hasn’t given up on me.

“He deserves better. I should be better. But who the hell am I kidding? I’ll keep feeding him and going through the motions, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough.”

I throw back one last shot, slam the glass on the bar, and stagger to my feet. The bartender watches me with a tired look as if she knows how this will end. And maybe she has. But I’m standing, barely, and that’s more than I can say for most people.

I head for the door, lighting another cigarette, the night air slapping me in the face like a reminder that I’m still alive. Barely.

“Fuck it, fuck them and fuck me, I’ve got a dog to feed.”

A new Lake Tahoe Regional Evacuation Plan is open for public comment following efforts by local fire chiefs, law enforcement, and emergency management personnel across Nevada and California and five counties.

The 185-page document uses insights from previous experiences during future wildfire evacuations in the Lake Tahoe Basin. The plan provides critical evacuation information addressing areas surrounding Lake Tahoe, with seven annexes offering detailed evacuation procedures tailored to specific regions within the basin.

To review the plan, which is available online, and submit feedback during the 60-day comment period ending on Wednesday, November 20, email fireinfo@cityofslt.us., or visit laketahoeregionalevacuationplan.pdf. to review the document.

Here now, I find myself in a most peculiar predicament, having spent the weekend in Virginia City, and–odd as it may sound–nothing happened. That’s right, absolutely nothing. There was not a bit of excitement, no ruckus’, not even a tumbleweed rolling down C Stree to liven up the place. You might think that a newspaperman, a man whose livelihood depends on the constant churn of drama and spectacle, would find something–anything–of note to report. But I’ll be dogged if there’s a single scrap of real news to scribble down.

Now, I’ll admit I was more than a little disappointed. In a town like Virginia City, where the echoes of miners and gamblers still seem to drift like cigar smoke, you’d think something would shake loose, like an old ghost hankerin’ for trouble. But no. It was as if the whole place had decided to nap, and I, being the fool who’d arrived expecting a show, got to watch as the dust settled in the empty streets.

There were no shootouts, saloon brawls, or even a stray dog yapping. People walked about in the usual leisurely fashion, nodding politely to one another, and that was the extent of it. If you want to call that a “happening,” I suppose you can, but I prefer to think of it as a snooze fest with good whiskey.

So, I’m sitting in front of my keyboard, trying to find anything to write about. And then, like a bolt out of the blue, a little feathered fellow decides to make his grand entrance. I’m not one to make a big fuss over birds, but this one–this particular pigeon–was a sight to behold. Dave, I call him. No one told me his name, but I’m sure of it. I’ve seen him around enough now to know he’s a regular. Where he’s from or what he’s doing here–that’s a mystery to me. But I do have my theories.

Dave didn’t just flutter in like any ordinary bird, no sir. He arrived somewhere east of here–might’ve even been Como–might’ve been further still–and made his way down C Street. I’ve seen many a-creature brave the streets but none as Dave the Pigeon. The traffic’s wild here, mind you. Not the kind of horse-drawn buggies you’d expect from the old-time days, but folks in motorcars, zipping up and down like they’re racing at Daytona. And the foot traffic–Lord, save us, it’s a wonder anyone survives it. But not Dave. He sails through the madness unscathed like he’d been doing it his whole life. I have half a mind to follow him, just to see where he’d end up, but I don’t want myself mistaken as a bird watcher of ill repute.

The strange thing about Dave, aside from his impeccable street-crossing skills, is that he’s been here for days and says not one word. Sure, he coos, mind you, but not a single squawk or call that might suggest he’s a bird of grand ideas or ambition. He seems to be the picture of contentment, as though life here in Virginia City is the very definition of peace and satisfaction.

I tell you, I envy the fellow. Here I am, struggling to fill a column with some semblance of excitement, while Dave’s concern appears to be finding a cozy perch and enjoying the crisp mountain air. Perhaps he’s just that wise to know the best thing to do with one’s time–simply put, nothing. Or maybe he’s got some secret I’m missing–a magic formula for contentment and all the talk in the world can’t touch.

I’ll be honest with you. I’ve spent a good deal watching that pigeon. Not in any creepy, stalkerish way, mind you, but in a way, one might admire a man who knows how to live an easy life. Dave’s secret to life, I think, lies in his utter lack of concern. And maybe that’s the one thing Virginia City could use a little more these days.

So, what’s a newspaperman to do when nothing is happening? Perhaps it is time to put down the pen and learn from the pigeon. If nothing else, Dave the Pigeon has given me the most salient piece of wisdom I’ve had in a long while: sometimes, nothing is what you need.

Please excuse me, but I think I’ll sit on a bench, let my feet dangle, and see if I can’t coax a little coo myself from Dave.

He came to, face-down in the alley, a thick layer of vomit glued to his cheek. The world spun around him like some sick, twisted joke. His head pounded with a hangover so vicious it felt like someone had taken a bat to his skull.

He coughed, gagging as the taste of bile hit the back of his throat, the stink of his piss clinging to his pants. His ribs were on fire–felt like they had been kicked in–probably had been.

“Fuck me,” he muttered, struggling to roll over, his body shot.

His wallet was gone. His smokes were gone. Hell, whoever had rolled him had left him with nothing but the piss-stained clothes on his back.

“You there, God? You miserable son of a bitch,” he croaked, spitting blood onto the concrete. “Bet you got a front row seat to this shitshow, didn’t you? Laughing your holy ass off.”

He propped himself up on his elbows, his body screaming in protest. His lip split, nose bloody. They had worked him over. Real thorough. Some asshole probably got a nice laugh out of kicking the life out of a drunk in a back alley.

“Is this what you wanted, huh?” he spat, wiping his face with a sleeve already covered in grime. “Me, choking on my puke while some prick walks off with my last twenty bucks?”

He finally sat up, leaning against the cold, unforgiving wall of the alley. The sun had not even bothered to rise yet, but there was just enough light creeping in to make the place look even more like a dump. Broken bottles, crumpled newspapers, and him—the human equivalent of garbage, left to rot.

“You gotta be some kinda sick bastard,” he muttered, cradling his ribs as he struggled to stand. His legs wobbled, almost giving out, but he was not about to lay back down in that mess. Not yet. “You like this, don’t you?” he growled, stumbling toward the alley exit. “Watching me crawl around like a goddamn rat. Is this your idea of fun, you twisted fuck?”

Every step felt like someone was driving nails into his sides, but he kept moving. He had to. Staying in that alley felt like admitting he was nothing like he had always been nothing.

“You don’t do shit for me, you never have,” he hissed, his breath ragged as he made his way into the street.

The early morning was dead quiet, just the occasional car rolling by, the world moving on without him. It didn’t matter. Nobody gave a damn about a drunk bleeding in the gutter.

“Where the fuck were you last night, huh? While they were kicking the shit outta me, where were you?” He shouted at the sky, his voice cracking. “You just sitting up there, jerking off while I get my teeth kicked in?”

A couple of early risers glanced his way, then quickly turned their heads, pretending not to see. He was not surprised. He would avoid himself, too.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he muttered, “look away. Don’t wanna dirty your eyes with the likes of me.”

He stopped, bracing himself against a light pole, his legs ready to buckle. His chest felt like it was on fire, and the hangover wasn’t letting up. It was the kind that made you want to tear your skull open just to let the pain out.

“You get off on this, don’t you?” he growled, his voice rough, raw. “Kicking a man when he’s down. That’s your thing, isn’t it? Make us suffer, and then sit back and watch. Real funny, you prick.”

He forced himself back upright, every bone in his body aching. His ribs throbbed with each shallow breath. He’d probably be pissing blood later, but that was a problem for the future. Right now, he needed a drink.

“You set me up, didn’t you?” he continued, staggering forward, his voice a low snarl. “Born into this shit, and you’ve been watching me drown in it ever since. You never gave me a chance. Not one. And I’m supposed to pray to you? Beg you for mercy? Fuck you.”

He spat again, tasting blood.

“Mercy’s for suckers. You’re just up there, laughing, waiting to see how long it takes for me to finally go under. And the worst part? I keep talking to you like you’re gonna answer. Like you give a shit.”

The streets were coming alive now, people heading to work, eyes straight ahead, never straying toward the wreckage on the sidewalk. He kept moving, his legs barely carrying him, but he was used to it by now. He knew how to shuffle along, battered and beaten, just another piece of human debris.

“I shoulda known better,” he muttered, his voice thick. “Should have known from the start. You don’t save people like me. You just watch us burn out, laugh while we go down in flames.”

He leaned against a storefront window, catching his breath, looking at his reflection. What a joke. Bloody, bruised, the shadow of a man. He looked like something that crawled out from under a rock. But that was fitting, wasn’t it? Just another one of God’s little fuck-ups, crawling through the dirt.

“You wanna see how far I can fall?” he whispered, glaring at the sky. “I’ll give you a show, you bastard. I’ll keep dragging myself through this hell you call life, and I’ll do it with a middle finger in the air. You wanna see me break? Not yet, you motherfucker. Not yet.”

He pushed off the window, forcing his legs to move again, even though each step felt like it might be the last.

“I’ll be back tonight,” he growled. “Bottle in hand, head full of nothing, and I’ll still be here, cursing your name. You won’t get rid of me that easy.”

He turned the corner, disappearing into the crowd, just another broken man stumbling through the city. And God? He wasn’t saying a damn thing.